That was always my thing—cleaning when there were no good options, when I didn’t know what else to do. Give me stress, and I’d give you a spotless apartment.
And today? I had no clue what to do.
So I began scrubbing the kitchen.
As I worked, the encounter with my stalker this morning—actuallyallthe encounters we’d had over the last week—whirled through my head on a loop. Who the hell was this guy? Some mafia hit man? A psycho with a God complex?
All I knew for sure was that he was criminally good-looking. I had blue eyes, but his…his were stunning—crystalline aquamarine—and when he turned them on me, they sent shockwaves through my nervous system. Those eyes, paired with his black hair, dark eyebrows, and sharp cheekbones, made my ovaries scream.
Shouldn’t there be a rule that the most dangerous guys couldn’t also be the hottest?
For fuck’s sake, I’d always been drawn to tattooed guys.
Ever since I was old enough to notice them, I’d had a weakness for ink. I hadn’t ever gotten one, because they’d been so taboo where I grew up. But, God, the tattoos on that man. They weren’t just for show. The ones crawling up his neck and along his fingers hinted at something darker. Something earned.
I’d been compelled to stare at them. I imagined tracing them with my fingers—my tongue.
I had to be insane.
Shaking my head, I decided to tackle the fridge next, removing its meager contents and scrubbing it down as if that would clean my thoughts away.
The worst part about that man wasn’t his tattoos, or the way he’d manhandled me in the alley, or the dirty little fantasies he’d burned into my brain.
It was his dominance.
That slow, effortless, terrifying control he exuded—like he was used to getting exactly what he wanted, no matter the cost. And the worst part?
It worked.
Every time he turned those eyes on me, I lit up like a fire alarm.
Damn it, Grandpa had been right. The devil’s fire had always enthralled me.
And now, here I was—scared, furious, turned on, and too stubborn to run. I knew I should listen to Mr. Russian and Carmine, and get the hell out of New York before it was too late. But how could I walk away now that I was this close to my dreams?
So I cleaned.
And plotted.
I’d been so preoccupied with Stalker Guy that I’d almost forgotten about Ciro Delgado. Just thinking his name sent a chill down my spine.
Ciro had watched me carefully last night, and after I’d submitted to his authority, something in his eyes had changed, because I’d proven I could be owned.
And then Mr. Stalker had gone and stirred the pot.
Now Delgado would want blood. And I had a pretty good idea who he’d start with.
Me.
Two powerful men. Both dangerous. Both watching me.
It meant only one thing: I had to disappear.
But not for good.
I couldn’t give up on the theater. I wouldn’t.
As I cleaned, a plan began to form.
